“There was definitely something about the dead Mr. Ott,” said Gunther.
“What?” I asked.
“I don’t know. But I will sit in my room this night in darkness and re-create the events of this evening,” said Gunther.
“You do that,” said Phil.
“We’ll solve it,” Shelly said, his face pink, a fresh cigar in the corner of his mouth.
He looked at Pancho who nodded, either in agreement or falling asleep. Shelly put a hand on Pancho’s shoulder and ambled away saying, “Great material for the movie, huh?”
“I have a question,” said Jeremy, who hadn’t spoken for the past half hour. He looked at Blackstone and said, “Your brother.”
Blackstone smiled.
“That’s not a question,” said Blackstone.
“Is it an answer?” said Jeremy.
“What the hell are you two talking about?” Phil asked impatiently.
“The illusion in the ballroom at dinner,” said Jeremy.
“Yes,” said Blackstone. “Would you like to explain how I did it?”
Jeremy looked up at the night sky. We all looked up wondering what he saw. There was nothing up there but stars.
“When the lights went out the first time,” Jeremy said, “you hid.”
“Under the podium,” Blackstone supplied. “I came to the hotel this afternoon and with the help of my brother, switched podiums, placed the new, larger one closer to the wall and when the lights went out, I ducked behind and under the podium.”
“And when the lights came on,” said Jeremy, “it was Peter, your brother standing near the door, not you. He clapped so that everyone would look in his direction and not at the stage.”
Blackstone nodded.
“And when the lights went out again, your brother went through the door and out and you stood up behind the podium.”
“You have the eye of a true magician,” said Blackstone.
“But neither the dexterity nor calling,” said Jeremy.
“Hold it,” I said. “Your alibi for the killing of Cunningham in the dressing room was that you were onstage. If Cawelti figures out how the trick in the ballroom was done, he might also figure that it was Pete onstage that night while you were killing Cunningham.”
“How likely is it that one of those magicians,” Phil said, nodding at the hotel entrance, “will figure out how you did the disappearing act in there?”
“At least six of them have already done so,” said Blackstone.
“Marty’s tomorrow at nine. I might be a little late,” I said.
“Why?” asked Phil.
“I’ve got to see a wild man about a thousand and one nights,” I said.
And I might have to see a dentist named Fred, I thought. My tooth definitely wanted me to know it was there and not happy. I reached into my pocket for the bottle of oil of cloves. It wasn’t there. I had left it in my room.
Jeremy headed for the entrance of the hotel.
“Where is he going?” Phil asked.
“To rescue the bird,” said Gunther.
Chapter 13
Place a hat on the floor. Drop a playing card. The card floats away, always. Invite others to drop a card. You take a card and drop it right into the hat. Solution: Hold the card shoulder high over the hat. Hold the card flat, level with the floor, with your thumb on one side and a single finger on the other side. Release the card. It will fall into the hat.
“Susteance,”came Mrs. Plaut’s voice from the darkness.
I sat up on my mattress on the floor and blinked at the broom-thin shadow in the doorway. The overhead light came on and I looked into the face of Irene Plaut.
“You cannot go through a day such as you had yesterday without enough stick-to-the-ribs sustenance,” she said. “Breakfast in fifteen minutes. You have left your bib and tucker in a heap.”
She pointed at my tux on the floor near the door and started to turn.
“Was your husband really a magician?”
She either had her hearing aid turned off or chose not to answer. She turned right and walked away, leaving the door open. Leaving the door open guaranteed that I would have to get up to at least close it.
My shoulder where the pellet had hit felt fine. Well, “fine” was a little optimistic. In addition, my tongue told me that I hadn’t lost any more of the tooth. The tooth told me that it would behave. I did not trust the tooth. I used the oil of cloves, got up, put on a reasonably clean pair of underpants and trousers and hurried to the bathroom to shower and shave before one of the other tenants beat me to it. I was sure Gunther had long since cleansed himself from toenails to the ends of the hairs on his head. It was Bidwell I tried to beat. He took about fifteen minutes in the bathroom, probably because he had only one hand to work with, though he seemed to be doing reasonably well with that one hand where Emma Simcox was concerned.
I was the first one at Mrs. Plaut’s table, having passed the screeching bird whose name I no longer knew nor cared about. I had dropped my tux in a neat bundle near the front door.
“I have to hurry,” I said as Mrs. Plaut came in with the coffee.
“We all have to hurry,” she said. “It is the lot of man, the human condition. Breakfast today is Spam and egg casserole with loganberries.”
“Sounds great,” I said, picking up the coffee.
“I’ll bring it out when all are assembled,” she said.
“I’m really in a hurry.”
“You’ll not live a moment longer nor accomplish anything of true pith and moment by hurrying,” she said, daintily picking up her coffee cup.
“Alright,” I returned. “Was your husband really a magician and were you the famous Irene?”
She put down her cup, turned it so the handle pointed away, pursed her lips and said,
“Mr. Blackstone is illusional.”
“Delusional,” I corrected.
“That, too,” she said. “I’ll get the casserole.”
Up she rose and ambled into the kitchen. Gunther arrived, and I told him where I was going before our morning meeting with Marty Leib. Gunther asked if I would like his company and I said I would.
Mrs. Plaut arrived with a steaming Pyrex container, which she held with two potholders. Gunther moved to place the bamboo mat on the table closer to her.
“There,” she said, putting down the dish and standing back to admire her work as Bidwell and Emma came in and sat next to each other.
“Smells good,” said Bidwell with his car salesman smile. If he had two hands, this is the moment he would have rubbed them together.
“The zesty, crusty topping has been recommended personally by Betty Crocker,” said Mrs. Plaut.
I considered telling Mrs. Plaut that there was no Betty Crocker. I considered asking Mrs. Plaut again about her rumored career as a magician’s wife. I considered finishing my coffee, motioning to Gunther and leaving without the pleasure of the savory casserole. The latter was not a serious consideration, not if I intended to remain a boarder in Mrs. Plaut’s house of a thousand pleasures.
The casserole was good, strange but good. That was Mrs. Plaut’s specialty: strange but good cooking, with an emphasis on the former. Bidwell always shook his head and ate with gusto, frequently adding comments on the brilliance of Mrs. Plaut’s culinary skills. I think he meant it. The man survived on enthusiasm. I could take just so much of it. I ate, chewing only on the left side of my mouth.
I had seconds and then waited while Gunther finished. He did not eat quickly. When he finally placed his knife and fork neatly on his plate, I stood and said, “Sorry, we’ve got to run.”
“With caution,” said Mrs. Plaut. “Always with caution. The mister always said, ‘If you don’t look where you are stepping, someday, somewhere you will step into something that will be hard to clean off.”
“Sage advice,” I said, and we were off.